For All I Know
by Sunny33
Summary: Kidnapped and caged. Can't get much worse than that, can it? Hell, yeah! Sam!Whump Dean!Whump Set 5.01/5.02 so watch out for spoilers. 1/4 chapters at most. NOW COMPLETE! Please review.
1. Chapter 1

***Hey Guys, I know I haven't posted for a while, work-work-chop-chop-busy-busy. **

**This story is set between 5.01 and 5.02 – although there is only supposed to be about 3 days between them according to Show...however, not in MY world. ;) Shouldn't be longer than 4 or 5 chapters. See what you think. **

**For All I Know**

*****

*****

They'd walked right into it.

It could have been the cumulative exhaustion of the fight over the past three months to stop the rising at the convent.

It could have been the fact that they were over occupied by the spike in tension between them and the effort it took not to fight.

More than likely, it was the alcohol.

It kindly dulled the senses and blunted the pain. Alcohol was considerate that way. Drink enough of her and she'd bathe you in a momentary flood of optimism and of course, apathy regarding your present situation.

And so, Dean had said nothing when he'd noticed Sam hesitate at the door. Like he didn't want to leave the warm fug of the bar. Instead, he'd forced the decision and pushed his arm past Sam and shoved the door open for him.

Outside, needles of rain made them both exhale. Heads down, they'd pulled their jackets closed and turned into the wind.

There was no one there to save them.

No one to see the baseball bat smash into Dean's chest, as they rounded the corner.

No one saw him get savagely pulled so that his face smacked against the unforgiving brick wall, his nose spraying blood against it like some weird Jackson Pollock homage.

No one heard the shouts and the groans as they both managed to swing wildly in delayed retaliation. Dean's fist connected with a bristled chin, but the baseball bat had the advantage as it was rammed into his ribs with an accompanying grunt. Suddenly Sam was down, and so was his hooded attacker, but the hulking figure towering above them delivered a series of determined kicks to Sam's chest winding him long enough for his attacker to break free from his grasp.

The glint of a knife caught Dean's eye, and the savage jerk of Sam's head as the knife dug perilously into the soft skin on his neck. Two sets of eyes stared at Dean, half smirking, half goading him to make a move so they could slice open his brother's jugular. Sam's legs bicycled across the ground as he was pulled back by the hair, the knife digging in deeper. They dragged him back, further into the gloom of the alley. In the distance, a waiting car, all doors open. Sam's serious face, grimacing but maintaining eye contact with his brother.

"Leave him alone...Sam!" He launched himself towards them.

And Dean would've levelled them. He would've destroyed them all.

The adrenalin in his blood and the extra volumes of oxygen in his lungs told him so. He would've ripped them to shreds, pummelled seven shades of shit out of every one of 'em... but for the baseball bat. It's very existence absent from his mind until the moment it slammed into the back of his head and sent him face forward onto the concrete.

*

Six hours later.

*

Dean pushed his head back onto the wooden crate. His only option against a profusely bleeding nose and his arms tied back at the elbows.

Sitting still didn't help. Pressing his nose against his knee didn't help. Tipping his head back and feeling the blood drip down the back of his throat was as good as it was going to get, apparently.

He looked across at Sam through the darkness.

No movement.

Lying on his front, head turned away. Knuckles grazed. Wet clothes.

This would be the life he'd face alone if Dean wasn't with him, he told himself. Although he had been with him. And his presence had provided no help whatsoever.

He considered how Sam was going to approach the subject. Because he would. And soon.

He remembered being in the bar.

That it was warm and inviting.

That the three girls over in the corner were very easy on the eye.

That Sam had uncharacteristically closed his lap top and had slumped into a resigned position and actually looked like he was relaxing into his beer. That he'd felt a slight release on the continual alert Sam was on for Dean's approval. Watched Dean like a hawk. Waiting for absolution. Or recrimination. Or blame. It was beginning to get on Dean's last nerve and he welcomed the respite the booze seemed to afford him.

So, they'd obviously been jumped. And here they were.

A rigged up store room with the window's blanked out save for a slim chink of light, wooden crates and pallets and a substantial wire fence between them.

Two cells for two prisoners.

"Sam." Quietly.

No movement.

"Sam, wake up." Not so quietly.

No movement. No answer.

Dean pushed his head back against the wooden crate. The familiar feeling of blood still dripping from his nose and down his throat.

*

Three hours later.

*

When the door opened the light fell on Dean's face like a laser beam, making him squint and flinch out of the way. He blinked frantically trying to gain a visual on whoever it was that stood in the doorway. It wasn't until he'd closed the door behind him, that Dean could make out his features.

A square face, open, with sharp eyes. A hunters face. In his 50's, and tall. Heavy set. A regular powerhouse in his day. Dean lifted his face and stilled as a sudden recognition hit him.

"Fulmer..." he said quietly. "Fulmer Backhouse."

He remembered Fulmer...but not in a good way. In fact, he remembered he'd disliked him intensely and the feelings had been returned.

Which meant he wasn't there to save them.

Which meant he was probably their jailer.

Fulmer pulled a dead-eyed smile. He fisted his hand around a paper bag he carried. His eyes rested onto Sam's limp form.

"What'd you do to him?" Dean spat out.

"Nothin' more than you got. You not been feedin' him lately?" Fulmer asked. He fumbled with a set of keys from his jacket pocket.

"Yeah...we were just about to go for a happy meal when you dicks jumped us."

Fulmer suppressed a chuckle. Dean moved to get up, his ribs pulling him back with a monumental stab of pain. The noise of the key in the lock seemed to boom out into the silence of the room.

"What the hell are you doing, Fulmer?"

"Just checkin' on him," he answered quite innocently.

Dean made it to his feet. Leant back on the wooden crates.

The cage door now open, Fulmer walked towards Sam.

"No, why did you take us...what do you want, for God's sake?"

Fulmer bent down to look at Sam's face. Dean waited.

Seemingly dissatisfied with what he saw, Fulmer jabbed a kick to Sam's ribs.

"Hey! Get up!"

Dean grimaced at the sight.

"Fucking Winchester's." Fulmer bent down again. "Wake up, you demonic piece of shit!"

Dean's blood iced in his veins.

He knew.

Somehow, that dumb- fuck who had the gall to call himself a hunter who was presently lording it over them knew about Sam. His mind fought for a way to control the situation.

"What?" he snorted. "What are you talking about?" Even he could hear the key change in his voice.

Another steel cap into Sam's ribs, only this time it provoked a moan from the young brother.

Fulmer stepped back and looked over at Dean.

"No need to pretend to me. I know what your brother is. I know what he did to himself."

Dean maintained eye contact – a short sharp image formed in his mind of him smashing the butt of his shotgun right into that smiling, smug face. Teeth and blood splattering everywhere. The fantasy did little to reduce the spike of anxiety that he felt.

Fulmer threw down the bag onto the floor. Sam shifted slightly, making Fulmer smirk with satisfaction.

"What are you doing, Fulmer?"

He turned and closed the cage door.

"At least tell us what you want."

Dean leant a shoulder against the wire fencing, hoping it would be lax. But it wasn't. It was strong and taught and as well constructed as it looked. He waited for eye contact but it wasn't returned. Instead, Fulmer turned his back to Dean and gently closed the door on him, immediately reducing the room to darkness again.

*

Three hours later.

*

Dean opened his eyes.

A black beetle scurried across the grey cement in front of him, and he grimaced as he lifted his head up from the puddle of blood near his face.

Still. His nose had stopped bleeding.

Things were looking up.

He looked across at Sam. He'd moved. Or had been moved. He was now on his side.

With a grunt, Sam raised his head off the cement and the sudden movement made Dean flinch. He waited Sam to see him.

"Hey..." he croaked.

"Hey, yourself." Dean groaned at the effort to lift himself up into a sitting position. The cable ties dug viciously into his arms and his shoulders screamed at any kind of movement.

"Where...where are we?" Sam whispered, his eyes flicking around the room. A blackened left eye and a clean cut to the bridge of his nose...apart from that, he looked reasonable.

"Town, city or state?"

Sam pushed himself up off the floor and turned towards his brother, blinking against the darkness.

"God, you're covered in blood...are you OK?"

Dean shuffled back so he could lean on the wooden pallet again.

"We took a beating...my nose bled and... he gestured towards his back, letting Sam see his arms. Sam nodded, his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of his brother. He used the wire fence to pull himself up and surveyed his surroundings.

"How long have we been here?"

"A day...I think."

He pulled at his wired confines. The fence didn't yield at all.

"What the fuck, Dean?" A sudden exhaustion to his voice. Dean snorted gently.

"You remember the idiot cousins we helped in Oklahoma...about a year ago..? The chicken farm outside Tulsa?"

Sam frowned at the thought. Then he nodded.

"The Backhouse boys."

"That's the ones."

"Straight from the 'Fuck-tards R us' stable...what about them? " Sam pulled a hand through his hair, flinching at a particular spot.

"It's Fulmer Backhouse that holds the keys on us." Even in the darkness, Dean could see Sam's eyes widen.

"You're kidding?" Dean shook his head gently. "Well, what the hell do they want with us?"

"You remember Deliverance, dontcha?"

Sam's head snapped around, just to check Dean was actually joking.

"Now, you're really kidding."

"Yeah, well let's hope so. Not much I could do if they do decide to make me their bitch."

Sam sat down again, his shoulder against the fence.

"So, you've seen them. Did they say anything to you?"

Dean shifted his position. There was no point in keeping it from him. This was the very scenario he'd considered the day he'd discovered Sam was using his powers. This might be the first time they'd been confronted by another hunter knowing Sam's business... but it probably wouldn't be the last.

"He didn't say why they'd jumped us...but...they do know about you." Dean held Sam's gaze, and saw his mouth fall open at the revelation.

"They know about me?"

Shame, doubt, fear...it was all there in his brother's face. Dean cleared his throat.

"Fulmer said...he knows about you and what you did to yourself."

"And?"

Dean pursed his lips. "He called you 'demonic'."

Sam suddenly looked defeated. "Right." He muttered, almost to himself.

Dean let the silence settle between them. It had all turned to shit after the panic room. As if there would be any other outcome to discovering your brother sucked demon blood and preferred a demon over you. And of course, incarcerating said brother and leaving him alone to deal with his devastating withdrawal was hardly the mark of a responsible older brother either.

And then there was Lucifer.

The devil. It seemed ludicrous to believe that it had even happened and yet they'd worked so hard to prevent it. Thanks to the odd bent angel and the odd skank demon, all their efforts had been next to useless. And everyone had gotten what they wanted in the end. Except the humans, of course.

"What's in the bag?" He gestured with his chin. The question jolted Sam out of his thoughts and he slid over to grab the bag.

"Food...and water," he said, pulling the bottle out and opening it straight away. "Come here," he said, holding it up to the fence.

Dean shuffled across the floor. He lifted his face against the fence and allowed Sam to rest the neck of the bottle against his lips so he could drink. He gulped the first few mouthfuls not realising how thirsty he was and then nodded for Sam to lower the bottle. Sam drank some himself. A satisfying sigh at the sudden rehydration.

He turned out the bag - a ham bagel and a chocolate muffin rolled onto the cement.

"Bagsy the muffin," Dean said. Sam frowned.

"It's a meal for one."

"I noticed. I'm not taking it personally though." Dean leant against the fence while Sam tipped the bottle against his lips again. Dean nodded gently, and Sam finished the rest. He looked down at the empty bottle in his hand.

"Should've kept some," he admitted. "Too late now."

"At least you've got something to pee into."

Sam scanned the room once again.

"Hey, you're right. There's nothing here. Probably have to give us toilet breaks. Gives us a chance to reccy the place." His voice lightened at the prospect.

"You are your father's son, Sam."

He smiled and picked up the muffin. Picked off a piece and tasted it. Another piece and this time, he held it out towards Dean. He considered it for a beat, the thought of being hand fed by his brother, an action too intimate for the state of their relationship it seemed. He sighed, and opened his mouth anyway.

They both settled back and ate the muffin.

Sam thought back to Fulmer and Figgis Backhouse and the revenant that stalked their farm. The damn thing had killed a farm hand a state away, and Fulmer had phoned Bobby boasting that he was killing it. Wannabe hunters, the Backhouse boys were uneducated in the Supernatural, ill prepared and usually unwilling to do any background checks either. Then there were two revenants, and the panicked phone call to Bobby held none of the bravado of the previous call. So, Sam and Dean were sent over to clean up. They were lazy and ungrateful, and couldn't quite grasp the severity of their inactions. Their procrastinations had resulted in the death of a young farmer next to their land.

"God, I can still smell Figgis Backhouse," Sam said out loud. He pushed another wedge of muffin into Dean's mouth.

"Don't remind me," Dean mumbled.

"Well, we killed the revenants, we even let them take the damn credit for it..." he trailed off, thoughtfully. "I mean, maybe they think I'm a demon and they want me dead too."

Dean remained silent.

"But then... they could have killed me back at the bar."

Dean agreed with a single nod. A sudden frown returned him to a similar theory. His stomach suddenly soured at the memory.

"_If I didn't know you, I'd wanna hunt you." _

Sam scooped up the last of the muffin. Dean turned his head away.

"Keep it. I've had enough."

"You want some bagel?"

Dean shook his head.

"Can't fight back if we're too weak, Dean." Again with his father's voice.

Dean pulled at the muffin sticking to his teeth and wished they'd kept some of that water back.

Then they heard it.

An unearthly scream. Followed by a roar of rage and hate. The brothers looked at each other, waiting for the next noise.

A fight. A rumble of furniture and something being dragged.

More screaming. Someone shouting obscenities and threats.

"They've got someone else," Sam said, a trace of wonder to his voice.

The noise got louder. The door shook with the strain of being rammed and both boys shuffled themselves against the back wall.

The sound of keys against wood.

The door being opened.

The light shining in and distorting the figures in the doorway. The screaming rage filled the room, their captive's hate filled rants revealing a slight slur. As if he'd been drugged. Fulmer and Figgis pulled his legs away from him, his face smacking off the cement as he fell. Fulmer jammed the key into the lock of Sam's cage, while Figgis launched the man inside.

Instead of staying down the man lunged back at the partly opened cage door – forcing Figgis and Fulmer to brace themselves against the onslaught. This guy had chutzpah, Dean thought. Either that or he was on crack.

And it wasn't until Fulmer looked past the new captive to look at Sam - and it wasn't until Figgis smiled that yellowing grin at the newbie's vicious threats, that it began to dawn on Dean.

"There ya go, Sam," Fulmer shouted above the noise. "He's all yours."

Sam moved to stand up, poised, ready - level in height with the man now trying to beat his way out of the cage.

Finally securing the cage door, Figgis grinned back at Sam, as the man slowly turned to face him.

His eyes were blacker than coal. His sneer as sickly as any demon's. His chest heaving with the effort it took to fight his incarceration with the mighty Sam Winchester.

"Now, boy. Let's see if the rumours are true," Fulmer said with menace. "Let's see you kill me some demons."

*

*

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

FAIK2

*

*

Sam braced himself.

They locked eyes – anticipating the others first move.

The tension sparking between them. The demon seemed to hesitate for a nano beat before launching himself at Sam, all teeth and rage. A rabid dog with it's back against the wall and an audience to entertain. Dean swallowed back the fear that balled in his throat.

Sam successfully dodged the first few jabs and grabs but his attacker was reckless – a man truly possessed. A series of punches slammed into Sam's ribs, already tender from his previous beating and he pulled himself into a protective crouch. A stealthy kick and the demon was brought down – Sam tried to flip him over onto his face, but cat-like reactions beat the young hunter too it and he was soon pummelling Sam's head and neck with killer punches.

"Fulmer!" Dean screamed over the noise. He kicked at the fence in utter frustration but he couldn't keep his eyes from the fight. Fulmer and Figgis remained, mesmerised. Fulmer's mouth twisting into a baiting mantra under his breath, Figgis hugging himself like a child.

Sam completed a well aimed head slam into the demon's face, and he fell back against the wire, a tangle of arms and legs, allowing Sam to stand up.

"Come on!" Fulmer roared at him suddenly, his eyes focussed on the demon shaking himself back to reality. "Kill him...kill him now!" Figgis sniggered into his hands, his eyes wide and expectant.

With an accompanying scream, the demon ran at Sam, forcing him back against a stack of wooden pallets one of which shattered into large splinters. And Sam was fighting, he really was, each swing connecting with bone crushing accuracy – the demon merely shaking off each one. Sam slammed a well aimed piece of wood into the demon's neck, the shock of it throwing him back against the wire fence. Another few seconds to collect himself, Sam tried to stand up straight, holding his right side in pain.

How long could this last? Dean asked himself. Sam was exhausted and injured and no match for a well fed human, let alone a super charged demon. He licked his lips and strained against the wire for a better view.

"Sam..!"

Sam's eyes flicked over towards his brother, the strain of the fight clearly showing in his reddened features. His chest heaving with the effort to suck in more stale air, he watched the demon pull himself up again.

"Sam! Dean shouted. Sam's face clouded over, his eyes darting towards his brother's anxious face in the next cage. Dean hesitated. If Sam pulled the demon, he'd only be doing what the Backhouse's wanted. A puppet on a string, and for how long. But if he kept on trying to defend himself, he'd eventually fail, and they'd only be watching the tragic and violent death of Sam Winchester. Dean shook his head, not wanting to hear himself say it.

"Just do it," he mouthed, the sound of Figgis' sniggering in the back ground grating on his every nerve. With one nod, Sam pulled his shoulders back, his every fibre focussing onto the demon now standing before him.

He licked his lips and lifted his hand. The demon suddenly stilled at the sight, his stance relaxing for a moment before he let out a snigger from somewhere deep in his belly it seemed. Dean, Fulmer and Figgis stood in the new silence – in awe of the scene, each one of them willing something to happen.

"Gettin' a tad rusty there, son," the demon snarked. Reaching up he pulled the slice of wood from his neck, the blood running freely over his collar bone and down his chest.

Sam closed his eyes in concentration.

The demon's face began to change. He bent forward and coughed.

Dean held his breath.

"You ain't got it no more, have ya'," The demon goaded Sam. He began circling him, looking for an angle, going in for the kill.

Still Sam continued, the strain beginning to show.

The demon suddenly halted. He coughed again, his tongue protruding in a grotesque gag reflex and slowly, very slowly, the black smoke began to trail from his mouth.

His eyes.

His ears.

Sam continued, his breathing increasing, the veins in his neck and face beginning to bulge.

Figgis clapped his hands.

The demon roared his defiance...then wailed. A mournful, pitiful sound of pain and utter suffering as the smoke became thicker, leaving the body faster and faster and spiralling up through the roof.

At last, the demon's host fell boneless to the ground, the last remaining traces of smoke burning black into the cement. Then, Sam followed suit. His head fell back and he crashed into the wire fencing before slumping into an obscene heap of limbs.

Silence.

"Woo-hoo!" Fulmer screamed, fists pumping and his face open and shining with excitement. "He done it...he killed him good!" He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "We got ourselves a real live demon killer here, Fig."

Dean slid down the wire fence until his legs were bent underneath him. Frustration and dread in stereo.

Sam had been put into an impossible situation – and he'd been forced to dance to their tune . And now it would never stop. Too lazy to read Latin, they'd obviously stumbled onto the idea of harnessing the only known demon killer since the Archangel Michael.

Sam.

"You could have exorcised him yourself, you lazy bastard!" Dean growled. Figgis rattled the keys inside the cage lock. With effort he pulled Sam's limp body over against the fence and strode in to pick up the man's arms.

"Tell Sam, I'm loving the work he does," Fulmer said, bending to help Figgis pull the man from the cage.

"He's not dead, you know." But Fulmer wasn't listening. "Fulmer! Don't hurt the guy, he's still alive."

"Yeah, sure." Figgis grinned, the man's head lolling back as the Backhouse's dragged him roughly out of the room. The door began to close leaving Dean blinking against the darkness.

"Fulmer!!" Dean roared.

*

Two hours later.

*

Eyelids flickering.

Breathing light and steady.

Dean drew his head back from the fence and looked at Sam's bruised face, the wire cruelly cutting into his cheek. If Dean had the use of his hands he could have gently pushed him back. But he didn't.

It showed how weak Sam was. When he'd pulled Samhain, all he'd suffered was a killer head ache and a bloodied nose. And then there was stunt demon No3, at Jimmy's house that had made him nearly faint.

Now he'd been out for a couple of hours and God only knows how he'd come out of it.

And who would be there to make sure he didn't swallow his tongue when he decided to leave? Because he would. And soon.

"Sam." Quietly.

"Hmm-mm," he groaned lightly. His eyes opened gently, his head pulling back from the wire. He met his brother's gaze and opened his mouth to speak.

"Did I pull him?"

Dean suffered the memory once more, and nodded silently.

"Is...is he dead?"

"Not when they dragged him out."

Sam's face clouded over.

"They know he's alive, don't they?"

Dean rolled himself into a sitting position, a wave of nausea washing over him.

"Yes, I told them. Doesn't mean they'll listen."

"What?"

"They're idiots, Sam!" Dean said with irritation. "They're lazy and ignorant and they've probably heard half the damn story and don't even realise the host survives."

Sam sat himself up. Hooded eyes. Suddenly defensive.

"You're angry 'cos I pulled him."

Dean closed his eyes in frustration.

"No, I'm not...I'm just..." Dean pushed his head back against the fence. "I just can't see how we're gonna get out of this one. I mean, for all I know they've got them lined up outside for you." He looked over at his brother. "They think it's nothing to you, they don't know what it takes out of you."

"I can take it."

"How do you know?" Dean snapped. "What rate did Ruby have you on at the end – one a day? One an hour? Tell me now Sam, so I can stop worrying about you."

A flash of anger in Sam's eyes, but he swallowed it back and looked away.

So did Dean.

On the edge and sliding. That's how he felt.

The pain in his shoulders stabbed at him relentlessly, the strain on his neck contributing to an astounding head ache.

Both boys flinched at the sound of the key in the door. Dean drew in a tempered sigh.

The keys in Deans lock this time.

Sam wide eyed and silent.

Dean unmoving.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the foul reek from Figgis' boots and clothes. Chicken shit and sweat. A winning combination. He strode into the cage and jammed an arm under Dean's wrists, forcing him up off his knees and pushing him towards the door. A rough hand grasping at Dean's hair, pulling his head back, ensuring compliance.

No time for last looks.

Sam opened his mouth to speak and wire-walked the length of the cell with them, but it all drained away once the room door was closed and the darkness surrounded him again.

*

An hour later.

*

The artificial light coursed into the room and Sam shielded his eyes. Dean was forced through the door and frog marched back into his side of the cell. Sam scanned every part of Deans face and neck. No injuries. A wet tee shirt. But he was walking. And uncomplaining, it seemed.

Figgis jammed a leg in front of Dean and viciously pushed him forward making him fall onto his chest with a grunt. From his belt, he pulled out a knife and cut straight through the plastic ties at Dean's elbows. Dean's arms shot forward and he groaned with the pain the sudden movement caused.

"Coulda done that before I needed to pee, you perverted fuck!" Figgis merely smirked, his eyes flicking across to Sam before he turned and exited the cage.

The key's clattered against the steel lock again, and his smell lingered in Sam's nostrils. He was already at the adjoining fence crouching down, waiting for Figgis to shut the door before he spoke.

Darkness at last.

"What happened? He asked softly. "What did they do?"

Dean swallowed, his face squashed against the cool cement floor. His shoulder joints relaxed in their natural positions at last.

"They...fed me," he mumbled.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Forced me to eat and drink."

Sam blinked at the news.

"And they let you go to the bathroom?"

Dean turned his head away.

"I don't wanna talk about that part."

Sam shuddered at the vision. Dean gingerly lifted his arms and rolled himself onto his back, his wet tee shirt sticking to his chest.

"You see anything?"

It seemed an age before Dean answered.

"Chickens," he spread his hand out above himself. "A short walk into another warehouse...full of chickens."

"Who else was there?"

"Just Fulmer...with a gun, so no point in trying anything."

Dean sat up and gently pushed himself up off the floor. He dug his hands into his jeans pockets – a new freedom he wasn't capable of before.

"No tools, no weapons. Just...sawdust and chicken feed." He stated plainly.

Sam scraped a hand through his hair, and turned his back to Dean. "Come on, there's got to be something...something we can do."

The silence remained for a beat.

"Well, there is one thing." Softly said, leaning against the fence. Sam turned to look at him.

From his pocket, he produced his slim line lighter. He held it up like a trophy along with a flashy grin.

Sam squinted at it in the dim light. "Oh, yeah. Lets burn ourselves to death...that'll stop 'em."

Dean's smile vanished.

"I was thinking more a distraction – something to get them in here, in a hurry. "

"Uh-huh."

"Then we jump 'em...or they'll let us out while they deal with it. This farm is their livelihood, they're not gonna let it burn." Dean waited.

Sam nodded.

"You're right. It's better than nothing. But, dude – it's the Backhouse boys..."

Dean shrugged at the claim.

"Starting a fire would mean us having to rely on them finding it and letting us out. God only knows where they are at any given time of the day – we could be charred husks by the time they discover the smoke."

"So, turn that on it's head. The longer they don't find out – the longer we've got to burn our way out of here. "

"We're in separate cages. There's only one of us getting out." Sam shot back.

"Then whoever gets out can throttle their filthy necks and grab the keys to the other cage, come on, Sam, right now, I'm not seeing any alternatives to this. Are you? "

Sam broke eye contact first. Submissive. His new place in the team.

A sudden feeling of dread washed over him as he heard the now familiar soft shuffle sound from outside the door. Then the metallic clunk of the key in the lock. The brothers made eye contact.

"It's your turn," Dean said quietly.

Sam's eyes widened as the door opened. "Don't do anything while I'm gone."

"Sam..."

The door opened, but all Sam could see was the cogs turning in Dean's mind.

"No, Dean."

Figgis' bulky frame ambled into the room, his eyes flicking between both brothers standing in their cages. Sam eyed him over. He imagined himself overpowering the fat little fucker and grabbing the keys. His veins throbbed with adrenalin at the mere thought of it. Then Fulmer appeared in the doorway - an AK47 slung over his shoulder and pointed at Sam.

Only when Fulmer nodded, did Figgis jam the keys into the cage lock and open the door.

Sam tried for eye contact with Dean, but he wasn't returning it.

"I mean it," he hissed, as he walked towards the door. Dean looked at Sam's broad back disappearing before the door slammed shut.

*

*

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

*

*

The strength of the imitation lights outside stung – and he blinked back the strain on his eyes.

A warehouse. Sawdust on the floor. A permanent dry dust in the air. The gentle hum of hundreds of chickens nearby. Probably the warehouse next door. This place had metal pens and buckets. Hay and chicken feed sacks everywhere. Sam's eyes flicked over each item in a nano-second inventory.

The muzzle of Figgis' gun in the small of his back forced him forward and into a small office like room. A rough hand on his shoulder pushed him towards a bucket in the corner. He stalled for a moment – then realised neither Figgis nor Fulmer was going to leave him too it. Sam sighed, unbuckled his belt and did it anyway.

"How long is this gonna go on for, guys?"

"For as long as we want." Fulmer replied. A quick glance to the side saw Fulmer hanging up the AK47, only to pick up a sawn-off shotgun and training it on him. "Call it a service for the community."

"People are gonna start looking for us."

"What...Bobby Singer?" Figgis gave a moronic guffaw, only Goofy would've been proud of. "Hell, if he's your only hope, you're screwed."

Sam clenched his teeth and stared at the filthy wall ahead of him. The muzzle of the gun signalled the end of his toilet break.

"Got someone else for you to meet," Fulmer said quietly. Figgis pulled Sam back by his collar and walked him down towards the other end of the warehouse. Wide eyed, he scanned the pens for signs of movement.

They had another demon.

Only this one was either too big, or too pissed to drag to the cages for his extermination.

Sam slowed his pace, the door at the end of the warehouse becoming the one thing he never wanted to reach. If he left the warehouse, and Dean set his cage on fire, by the time they discovered it, his brother would be dead from smoke inhalation alone.

The stench of chickens assaulted his nose and stomach and he drew up an elbow to stem the smell. Figgis...being Figgis hadn't even noticed Sam's change of pace and as soon as his fat face loomed into his peripheral sight, he took his shot.

He slammed his elbow straight into Figgis' jaw - teeth and blood spraying across the sawdust floor. As he forced Figgis over to his right, Fulmer's shot gun blasted off a round - a sudden searing pain flashing over Sam's right shoulder. Sam followed the man down and jammed a knee into his ribs to wrestle the gun off him. He rolled himself up against Figgis – close enough that Fulmer couldn't secure a clean shot. And just as Sam levelled the gun, Fulmer's eyes widened at the realisation that he was out in the open – with nothing to save him.

Sam fired the weapon – Fulmer's left thigh seemed to explode in an unearthly sight of blood and tissue, both legs buckling and bringing him down.

Sam pushed Figgis away from him – the butt of the gun making a satisfying crunch as he forced it into his head and he rolled onto his face with a groan.

Sam lunged forward, unsteady but focussed. Just as Fulmer reached for his own gun, Sam managed to kick it away. He lifted a boot and swung it under Fulmer's chin, snapping his head back and knocking him out.

Silence.

Sam sucked in breath. He shook his head from an immediate rush of dizziness. His lungs on fire with a combination of exertion and dust. He stood looking down at the unkempt duo, sprawled out on the ground before him.

Without restraint, he ransacked Fulmer's pockets – and as he did so, he noticed rivulets of blood running down his right arm and off his hand. He followed the trail back up to his shoulder. It was covered in blood. It ran down his back and covered the ass of his jeans. He'd been caught by the shrapnel of Fulmer's sawn-off.

He swayed momentarily, grunting with the effort it took to stand up and transfer his attention to Figgis nearby. Soon the comforting jangle of keys was heard and he grabbed them and stumbled towards the room with the cages.

At the door, Sam looked down at the huge bunch of keys.

Ten of them. Jeez.

Sam let the guns drop to the floor and glanced back to the far end of the warehouse. He drew in a cleansing breath and focussed on the keys. They all looked the same.

He jammed one into the lock and turned. No give.

The next one. Nope.

The third one...wrong again.

His shoulder shot back little stabs of pain at his every movement, the adrenalin rush beginning to wear off. He swapped hands in an attempt to lessen the slick of blood covering the keys and making them slippery, but only succeeded in losing his concentration.

A wave of prickly heat seemed to spread up his neck and face and he paused to gather his senses.

Then he smelt smoke.

Looking up, he could see black ribbons steaming from the top of the door and staining the wall.

Dean had started a fire.

"Dean! " He yelled.

His heart thumped harder – the pain in his arm and shoulder screamed louder and he jammed another key in the lock.

No joy.

He closed his eyes, an attempt to lessen his haste – and picked the next key on the ring.

The lock turned.

He reached out for the handle and pulled at the door. It seemed to swing open without effort.

A hot gust of air immediately engulfed him and his eyes locked onto the flames at the back of Dean's cage – the rush of new oxygen making it roar even higher.

He slammed a bloody hand against the light switch and a nervous strip light flickered it's obedience – but the smoke was down to head height already and Sam strained to see his brothers cage. At the far end was a veritable bonfire of the wood that had been broken up during Sam's fight with the demon. Dean had obviously pulled a pile of it through the fence and the combination of tinder, sawdust and dry air had given the fire all the fuel it needed. The air was thick and acrid.

Dean looked pitiful, huddled against the fence, his bloodied shirt jammed up against his face, nothing but a thin tee shirt to protect him, his arms bare to the searing heat and his head down.

Resigned to his fate.

"Dean!" Sam shouted above the noise. The heat of the air already burning his nostrils and drying his mouth. He forced a key into the cage lock.

No movement.

Another key...

Sam's eyes blurred and watered against the grime of the atmosphere and he began to cough.

Another key...surely this one would be it.

The heat made him turn his head away – an instinct to protect his face.

Another key.

The fire licked up against the ceiling – sparks shooting erratically back into the cage.

Another key.

And...the lock turned.

The cage door slammed open, and Sam bent down and crawled inside towards Dean. He grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back and was rewarded by a flinch as Dean lifted his head.

Sam pulled him back, Dean's legs cycling against the floor – a confused attempt to assist. Sam's lungs strained with the lack of clean air, and the heat from the flames made him fumble blindly for the exits.

Groaning with the effort, he dragged Dean out into the warehouse and crumpled to the ground, the cool air now an exquisite contrast to the muck and grime of the smoke filled room. Wiping his eyes, he turned to look back at Dean. Smoke blackened skin surrounded his eyes and mouth – but he was moving, and coughing and for that, Sam felt grateful.

He forced himself up and pulled Dean's tee shirt into his fist – Dean's eyes opened a crack to look at him.

"You stupid bastard! What the hell were you thinking?" he rasped into Dean's face. Dean's head lolled back, his hands pushing Sam's away as he coughed even more.

*

*

The warehouse continued to burn.

But Fulmer and Figgis had a ringside seat, tied up outside and far enough away that they wouldn't be harmed. Which was more consideration than they'd ever shown to Sam and Dean.

The demon had already gone. A pathetic mangle of plastic ties in a converted pig pen, the only indication that someone had ever been there. Whatever drug the Backhouses had fed him, must've worn off. Thanks to their continued incompetence, a demon was free. The first guy wasn't though. He lay, slaughtered just outside the warehouse. A bullet to the skull of an innocent host. He could have gone home to his family. But for the Backhouses.

"The police will find him, and charge them with murder," Sam had stated baldly. Dean had merely nodded. As good a justice for what had happened as any.

Fulmer's pick up had transported them the three hours it took to drive back to their motel.

Sam had driven sullenly, favouring his right side all the way.

Dean had coughed himself into spasms in the passenger seat. His hairless arms curled around his ribs, his eyes streaming white streaks down his blackened face. They'd both stumbled into their room, one flopping onto the bed, the other retreating to the bathroom. The silence heavy and cumbersome between them.

They swapped rooms wordlessly. Sam sat gingerly on the bed holding his right arm in an attempt to decrease the movement in his shoulder, the familiar sound of Dean's shower lulling him into a daze. He threw the towel down behind him and leaned back on the bed. His muscles relaxed and he suddenly felt exhausted.

"Sam." Dean's voice was far away.

"You're still bleeding, man." Louder now.

Sam opened his eyes to see Dean hovering over him. He turned Sam's head to the side and examined the erratic spatter of wounds around his neck and shoulder.

"We gotta get them out. You know that, don't you?"

Sam groaned at the thought, but pushed himself up into a sitting position while Dean grabbed the first aid kit and fumbled inside for the tweezers. He pushed a packet of pain killers into Sam's hands along with a bottle of water and switched on the electric jug to boil.

Later, settled beside his brother, Dean drew in a fortifying breath and poised the sterilised tweezers above the deepest wounds. Sam braced against the gnawing pain, as Dean delved into each little wound on his shoulder.

"Another few minutes and you would've been toast, you know." Sam began. No tone to the statement.

Dean focussed on his task. The gentle 'chink' of bloodied metal hitting the glass on the night stand.

"Well," he said softly, "once I heard the gunshot, I figured, 'what the hell.'"

"I might have failed. You would've burned. I told you not too." Sam's eyes remained trained ahead of him.

Dean stopped working for a beat and he lifted his gaze up to his brother's face.

"You told me not too?"

"We discussed how it would go and you did it anyway."

The tweezers ricocheted into the glass as Dean stood up and moved away, his face dark with anger.

"Yeah, we did. We discussed it and you told me not to do it. Any part of that scenario seem familiar to you, Sam? " Sam looked away, nostrils flaring with tension. "I spent the past year discussing, pleading and arguing things with you too, remember? "

"Look, Dean – " Sam moved to stand up.

"Look at what?" Dean turned away. "Look at you trying to tell me what to do, when you wouldn't take the same advice from your own damn brother?

Sam wiped his face and stepped back from the confrontation. A rush of heat pricked his skin as his heart picked up its beat – his mind racing to find the words to throw back at him.

"You don't have to keep reminding me... I know what I did was wrong."

"Yeah, but it didn't stop you from doing it, did it?" Dean snapped back. He pushed the bathroom door open and turned back to his brother.

"Now you know how it feels," Dean's eyes were piercing in their intensity. "Stings, don't it."

Sam didn't hear him though. His vision was blurring and his mouth suddenly dried. He pushed out a hand to steady himself, but there was nothing there. By the time Dean had turned on the tap to wash his hands, Sam was already falling.

*

*

Dean placed a hand over Sam's face, the dark blood on his neck a sharp contrast to the pale of his skin. He felt clammy and Dean thumbed away the moisture collecting under Sam's swollen, black eye.

Exhaustion. The boy was exhausted. He pursed his lips and pushed the hair away from Sam's forehead. A sound beating – incarcerated in a damn cage- underfed, and forced to exorcise demons and now cut up with buck shot and bleeding. And all it took to push him over the edge was another fight with his brother.

Dean frowned and pulled a hand across his own forehead.

This wasn't working.

They weren't working.

After Dean had told him that he didn't think he could trust him, he'd actually been expecting Sam to leave. That he'd just pop the trunk, grab his stuff and go, right there from the hospital car lot. But he'd stayed. He'd leave another time. And soon.

Oh, Dean knew he was sorry and ashamed. But even so, he still had that little spark of entitlement to the team that Dean wasn't quite ready to give him yet.

And Dean knew it was him. He couldn't let it go. Even on his better days there'd always be something that would bring it all back. A look. A word. Or a statement like, 'I told you not too.'

Dean sighed and reached up to the night stand and pulled down the glass. May as well pull some metal out of his shoulder while he's out of it, he told himself.

*

*

**OK, looks like the next chapter is the last one. Limp Sam for y'all. Don't say I'm not good to ya. **


	4. Chapter 4

**So, just to remind you, this is set between 5.01 and 5.02, and we all know what happened at the end of 5.02, right? **

*****

**Chapter 4 **

*

*

Dean jolted awake.

The sound of furniture against wall, falling objects and close confined chaos in the dark.

He swung around and snapped on the bedside lamp only to see Sam trying to climb up onto his night stand. All arms and legs. Like a startled colt. He blinked hard at the sight.

"Sam ! "

Sam wasn't listening. He wasn't seeing either, even although the light was now on. CRACK! The night stand broke away from the wall, wood splintering, plaster flying, Sam stumbling over it, searching...searching for something.

Dean got up and slid over Sam's bed to reach him.

"Whoa, whoa, Sam..." He pulled at Sam's good shoulder, only to have him fall back onto Dean – hands clutching at air. Reaching. Searching.

"Sam, hey...wake up, wake up, man." Dean pulled him closer, catching his right hand and clamping it to his chest.

He suddenly calmed. Eyes blinking. He looked up at the wall with the gaping hole where the night stand used to be. Dean looked down at him.

"You hear me now?"

Sam stilled. His heart beating a veritable drum chorus under Dean's hand.

"The bathroom...I thought I was..." He trailed off, frowning at the wall in front of them.

Dean moved to sit him up. "The bathroom's behind you." Sam licked his lips, his face drawn and grey. A sweat slick down the front of his tee shirt. Dean's hand resting on a clammy neck.

"They're infected, huh?" Sam murmured , looking at the dressings on his right shoulder.

"Yup." Dean sighed. He stood up and offered his hand. Sam looked at it, as if contemplating the gesture. He took it and gently stood up and stumbled towards the bathroom. Dean looked down at the crazed mix of wood and plaster board, glass and lampshade.

"That's one deposit we ain't getting back," Dean grumbled to himself. Rain battered hard onto the door and window, the thought of cold night making him shiver. He pulled a hand down his face and wandered back over to his own bed, the sound of running tap water barely audible above the weather.

He'd pulled several little bits of shrapnel out of Sam's neck, but there were two, three wounds on his shoulder that just came up empty. By the time he'd gotten Sam onto the bed, the muscle had already swollen, the skin hot and dry. Run down and vulnerable, he was a natch for infection – and here it was.

The bathroom door pulled open and Sam promptly fell back onto it, arms flopping, head cracking against the door frame. Dean grimaced and strode over towards him.

"Damn it!" Sam hissed, his eyes scrunching with the pain.

"Dude," Dean returned softly. Another hand offered.

Sam's chest rose with a fortifying breath. Instead, he moved forward, on hands and knees towards his bed. Dean let him go, the hand switching uselessly in the air. He turned off the bathroom light and let the weak bed side lamp remain while Sam settled on his bed.

Dean picked up the Tylenol, and Sam watched him grab a bottle of water by his bed.

"What about those antibiotics we had left over from Wisconsin?" he asked. Dean sat on the edge of his bed to offer two tablets and the bottle.

"You threw 'em out."

Sam frowned. "Did not."

"Can't find them, then." Dean stared down at the floor for a beat. "Unless they're in the car."

"Doesn't matter." Sam raised his voice above the din of the rain. He flicked back his head squeezing the plastic bottle into his mouth.

"I can go get them," Dean didn't hesitate.

"No, man. I'm fine," Sam sighed. "Go back to bed. Seriously."

*

Four hours later.

*

Dean gritted his teeth and forced the key into the impala. Rain bounced off the car roof. Down his face. Dripping off his chin.

Rigors. He hated rigors.

Sharp memories of six year old Sam trembling against him under the devastating shadow of some viral infection, and no Dad in sight for another night at least. A night to remember. There was no secret stash of antibiotics for them then. Now, at least there was a chance he could find them.

He pulled at the lump of blankets, waterproofs and sacks of goofer dust, imagining the white box being underneath them. He'd seen it somewhere. His jacket stuck to his back, sodden already. He snapped on a flashlight and dug deeper, hand scrabbling amongst the grit and metal of the trunk floor.

Nothing.

He'd dozed in the pale light, his head turning towards his brother's every movement. Sam's skin shone with perspiration and the tee shirt sucked it up. He'd throw the covers off, then, after a few minutes, he'd haul them up to his chin again. Dean sat up to get out of bed, only to have Sam order him back down. Insistent.

He'd pretended he needed the bathroom, and Sam had settled slightly on his return.

He'd intended to stay awake but the sudden stillness was what woke him eventually. A gentle hand to Sam's face proved his temperature had rocketed and Dean had tried to waken him. Feeble hands had pushed him off, Sam's mouth opening but no sound coming out.

"Drink...drink some..." Dean had commanded, pressing the bottle against his lips and clasping Sam's neck enough to lift his head.

"No, Ruby..." Sam had rasped. "I'm not...I can't..."

Dean froze. The words cutting into him. Bringing it all back again. The pained frown on Sam's face told him he was in another place. Another time. Was this how it went when Ruby had first introduced him to her blood? Did she force him when he was sick? He poured the water anyway, little trickles down each side of his mouth. Sam had half swallowed, half choked.

He grabbed the little box and pulled the trunk down with a satisfying boom. Back in the motel, Sam's bed was empty. Dean's eyes flicked around the room. On the floor, sitting against the wall, Sam held one arm over his head while his entire body shook with alarming energy. Little breaths exiting his dry mouth. Dean shrugged off his wet jacket and stepped out of his boots.

"Bingo, Sam..." he sat down beside his brother, the heat radiating off his legs which leaned into Dean's. Dean popped the tablets out of the foil strip. "Come on, man...gotta get 'em down. "

Sam glanced at the capsule in Dean's hand. " Fucking Backhouse boys," he whispered.

Dean nodded, his hand curling around the bottle to unscrew the top. Sam clumsily swiped it from his hand, and chased it with a gulp of water. Head back. Eyes closed.

"This hurts, Dean."

Dean pressed his head back against the wall too.

"The meds will beat it."

Sam shook his head. "That's not what I mean," he said gently. "The guilt. What I've done..."

Dean turned his head away. He remembered guilt. Every day since the memories of his time downstairs.

Another round of rigors wracked Sam's body and he pulled his knees up to combat them.

"I know...I know you don't want to hear this, but...how did you do it...how did you make it out of bed every day?"

Dean considered the question. The good days, and the bad days. They'd all paled into insignificance when he'd discovered Sam had been drinking demon blood to boost his powers. When Sam had refused to go with him to kill Lilith unless Ruby was with him. That hurt had replaced all the jagged pain and guilt he'd felt after coming back from hell. Didn't matter how bad it was, there will always be something worse to beat it. Hardly a confidence booster to pass onto your little brother, now was it?

It was, however, a valid question. What did make him get out of bed every day?

It was usually Sam.

"Sometimes, I think I can do it. You know...live with it. Through it. Try to fix things with us." Sam said. A sideways glance at his big brother. "And then, some fucktard comes along and...knows all about me, and I realise I'm never going to get away from what I've done. "

Dean frowned. Sam's emo gradient always peaked when he was sick. But his train of thought was still coherent, only it was too damn early in the morning for heart to hearts and talk of 'fixing things.' It was just too overwhelming at this Godless hour.

Sleep. Sam needed to sleep. Things would be different in the morning. Of course, tomorrow could be the day Sam decided to leave. Because, he would...Dean knew it. If the guilt didn't make him go, then the blood addiction would. Sometimes in his mind, Dean could even see him walking away.

He shook his head away from the wall.

"Sam. Go to bed." Gently. Not an order.

He stood up and offered a hand to his brother, his pinched features making him look young and vulnerable again. A vision of his past. A firm grasp and he pulled himself up.

An unsteady gate towards his bed, and a final stumble onto the mattress. Dean pulled the discarded blanket from the floor up onto his brother's legs and spread it out, silently.

As darkness enveloped them once again, Dean lay still in the dark knowing that the life they had experienced together would soon be gone.

And he'd deal with that...in the morning.

*

*

The End


End file.
